A Perfect Machine(43)

Krebosche sensed the crack in Palermo’s attention as finely as if he’d been observing him during direct, face-on contact. He took one quick glance at the position of the man with binoculars on the roof, then made his move: he feinted left, then dipped immediately right and low, came up quickly with the boot knife. Palermo got a shot off, but it went wide. The next second, Krebosche – knowing his only hope at not getting pegged by the guy on the rooftop, and anyone else with eyes on them, was to make sure he had no clear shot – lunged forward and tackled Palermo, taking him out at the legs. They went down together in a heap, Palermo losing his grip on the gun in the struggle. They rolled a few times, then Krebosche maneuvered himself on top of Palermo – just long enough to drive the knife into Palermo’s thigh. Not enough to hobble him (he knew if he had any shot at getting out of this, Palermo would need to be able to walk), but enough to hurt like a motherfucker. Blood erupted. Palermo screamed.

“Tell them to stand down!” Krebosche barked into Palermo’s face, then quickly slipped underneath and to the right of Palermo, so as to make a clean shot still impossible – or at the very least incredibly risky. He wrapped a hand around Palermo’s throat. “Fucking tell them, or I cut your head off right here and now!”

The thought then occurred to Krebosche that Palermo’s men could just open up on the both of them without fear of killing Palermo – the bullets would just add to whatever was already inside Palermo, but Krebosche would be riddled with them, and would die instantly. But what else could he do? This was the situation he found himself in, and if they opened up and this was the end, then that’s the outcome. He had gone for the knife in his boot instead of the gun in Palermo’s waistband because Palermo was lying on his back. The gun would certainly have made him feel more secure, but he’d foolishly envisioned an uneventful lead-up to his planned murder – not this ridiculous sideshow.

Now all Krebosche could do was hope the threat of the knife was enough.

“Hold your fire!” Palermo yelled. He repeated it twice more to make sure he was heard.



* * *



Krebosche quickly reached over and down and pulled the knife out of Palermo’s leg, moved it up to press against his neck. Palermo screamed again, tried to kick out once. Krebosche pressed the knife against Palermo’s throat until it drew blood. “Do that again. Go ahead, you shiteating fuck. Do it.”

Krebosche’s voice was thick with hate. Palermo felt spittle fleck his ears as Krebosche spat the words out. In that moment, Palermo recognized that this wasn’t just some jumped-up reporter, too stupid to know better than to come sniffing around his warehouse – or anyone even close to that; there was genuine and intense loathing in Krebosche’s voice. Palermo didn’t know why yet, but he knew he – specifically – was Krebosche’s target.

“Who are you?” Palermo said, his voice just edging into territory that would betray fear. He tried to control it, tamp it down. “What do you think I did to you?”

“I won’t tell you either of those things here, but I’ll tell you soon. I want you to know. Before I kill you, I want you to know.”

Palermo could think of nothing to say that would help his situation, so he said nothing at all. Just waited for whatever came next.

In the darkness, Krebosche saw shapes moving about – Palermo’s men advancing on their position, no doubt.

“Not much time,” Krebosche said quietly in Palermo’s ear. “You’re going to tell your men to keep back, then you’re going to request a vehicle be driven out here and parked very close to us. The headlights are by no means to be trained on us, or anywhere near our position. If I see a weapon of any kind on the driver, I’ll end you. Do it.”

Palermo yelled out the instructions. Made it particularly clear that the driver was to be unarmed. A couple of minutes later, headlights slashed the darkness, and a small jeep bounced its way toward them. The storm was picking up, and the snow would make it even more difficult for Palermo’s men to get a bead on Krebosche.

The jeep slowed to a stop near where they lay in the snow. The driver put it into gear, left the engine running, then very slowly got out and stood where Krebosche and Palermo could see him.

“Turn around,” Krebosche said. “No sudden movements.”

The man spun around once, as carefully as he could. Krebosche saw no obvious weapons.

“Now fuck off and don’t look back. Turn your head around even once, I open him up.”

The man nodded, immediately started walking away from the jeep, back in the direction of the warehouse.

“Now you and I are going to stand up very slowly and very delicately,” Krebosche said to Palermo. “My cheek will remain pressed to the back of your head the entire fucking time. And you don’t want to go for the gun in your waistband. Believe me. Do you understand?”

Palermo nodded.

“Right. Stand up at the same time as me. Take my lead.”

Both men moved in unison to achieve a standing position. Krebosche waited for the back of his head to open up. It didn’t, and within moments he was shuffling them toward the open driver’s door of the jeep.

“Before we get in, and you get any bright ideas about elbowing me in the gut and making a run for it – or something equally ridiculous – I have a tidbit of information you’ll be interested in, and I’ll tell you much more about it once we’re away from here.”